In Bed With Boys - Algebra Suicide

When I was small and arthritic in my crib, I knew Spaniards wanted sleep

While Americans merely needed it.

Now, on warm summer days, boys nip at my neck

Their hands too sweaty to hold and their backs wetting the bed

Boys in bed, boys on the bed, their heads roaring on pillows

And their feet twitching in sleep

I got boys who speak Latin in their dreams;

boys whose faces land in books

Who must be coaxed to the covers.

I got European boys who like cold rooms

And those that like the bushes.

I got boys who think they’re famous

And boys who call me «Sir.»

Boys who are shaped like Z’s

That snap straight when an avalanche of sun comes in the window

And in winter, they’re rolled in sheets that unfurl in the morning and fill the

room with skin